Serval Storm Rising
by TheQuietforest
Summary: Who really is Vladimir Putin, and why does his plan involve serval's? It's more complicated then you might think.


The steel reinforced door opened soundlessly at the headquarters of the Kremlin, revealing the shadowy maw gaping from the beyond. A single wooden desk dominated the room, looming over the two spartan chairs lying before it. On the walls rested the portraits of dictators, generals, and vodka brewers. Great men until their dying breaths. The enormous swivel chair was facing the window, which oversaw the great city of Moscow.

His right hand's indexed finger twitched briefly, and the faintest droplets of sweat were forming on his hairline. Anton Siluanov took a deep breath. He'd been appointed finance minister a mere three years ago, and had held the position with the tenaciousness of a brown bear defending its cubs. His ideas at economic flexibility had caught the attention of someone high up, and their practical applications had been incredibly lucrative. He had no doubts at his own mortality though. Failure was not an option. Not when working for this man. This plan, well...he had doubts bigger than Lake Baikal, but he trusted his men. It would work. It _had_ to work.

Anton advanced steadily to the chair, sitting stiffly with the meticulously written reports in his hands.

Vladimir Putin turned, eyes focusing on An ton with laser intensity, piercing his thoughts. His breathing quickened, mind jumbled at the icy blueness which consumed him. Time seemed to slow. A blistering coldness flared into being around him. Sheets of snow and ice appeared to cloud his vision. Within, even without seeing, he could sense a tempered predator of immense bearish strength coiled to spring upon it's next meal. He tore his eyes away.

Sweat dripped down his neck. He was breathing hard, every instinct telling him to run, but he remained seated with a monumental effort. Slowly, he straightened, eyes carefully trained on the desk. He understood why people considered Putin's gaze unsettling. Ha! Unsettling. It was less of an understatement to call Hitler a poor sport.

"Is everything in place?" The force of the airwaves shattered the silence with a reverberating growl.

"Yes, my lord," Anton squeaked. He mentally winced at the foepaw. It was just so natural. How could you not stand before this man and call him "lord" or "master"? "Do you wish to study the files, sir," voice lowered by an octave.

"No," the voice rang out again. "I've seen enough to inspire my confidence. Fifty million rubles have been transferred to the account. Bortnikov and the FSB have orders to give you full support. Don't fail me." Those ominous final words wormed into his mind, echoing through the various crevices of his brain until they burned with brilliant illuminosity.

The presence receded, and Vladimir turned idly back to the window. Anton knew when to take his leave, documents still in his hand while his mind whirled over every possible point of failure. Every weak spot had a plan B, and C. Not to mention he himself would oversee every the entire project himself himself to improvise if necessary. What could go wrong?

The Baruska family had been growing wheat, alfalfa, and herding sheep since the times of the Ottoman empire or even further. Or so his father had proclaimed.

His father was dead though. As was his wife. And his brothers, sister, grandfather, aunts, uncles. He was alone in the world. The breakup of Yugoslavia had seen them swept up in the genocidal wars which followed. Curse their ancestors for settling them on the Danube; but how could they have known the border it would become?

It didn't matter. Aleksander Baruska was fifty one now. Living for seventeen years on the same empty land in his dying farmhouse. The herd of sheep was gradually dwindling, down to ten now.

All of these contributed to his utter apathy as the micronation of Liberland was founded just north of his farm. The activities of politics and nations was meaningless to him.

Equally unimportant were the shadowed figures that flitted by the edges of his farm some months later. Then the wall started coming up. It was built across some of his best grazing land, forcing him to shift his sheep to further pastures. He didn't care. Built of concrete and steel it was ridiculous in the sunlight next to the rolling greens and trees. At night, it towered over him with an ominous authority.

It sent a shiver down Baruska's spine. Not enough to make him care.

Ivanov Medved removed the tranquilizer gun from the long, camouflaged holster resting snugly on his back. He set his backpack carefully, almost noiselessly, upon a patch of short grass on the Okavango riverside. The inflatable boat had been paddled upriver under orders of complete secrecy. The rest of his team had established a defensive perimeter around the boat in case natives or wild animals came to investigate. All weapons were silenced. All men were veterans of the Cold War under the Spetsnaz and KGB. They were the best of the best.

The clip of darts loaded with a muffled click. He brought the gun to his shoulder, re-checking the specs on the scope. Lined up. Perfect.

Ivanov lowered the gun, tracking the prey with a focused intensity. It flitted in and out of the bushes playfully, with little regard to the man over thirty yards away. It jumped in the waters of the river, chasing a fish perhaps? The motivation was of no importance. The animal paused, gracefully leaning to lap up the muddied waters.

Lifting the mild weight to his shoulder, he joined it with his arm and extended his senses toward his target. The crosshairs of the scope reached its chest. The trigger depressed twice in quick succession. The darts flew faster than the eye could, biting into the servals side with a faint thud. A fearful yowl issued from its mouth as it leapt from the river onto the bank, whirling at its presumed enemy. It found nothing but the African riverside, unable to see its true attacker so many yards away. After a few moments, the accumulated sedatives overwhelmed it's senses, and it fell dizzily to the ground. Motionless.

Walkie talkie grabbed from the clip on the backpack; "Step One in Operation Serval Storm Rising is complete."

"Excellent Komrade," the helmsman replied. "Return immediately, area is clear."

He jogged to the serval, walkie talkie clipped onto his belt. Ivanov hooked his arms beneath the kute kats limp form, resting it protectively in his arms. A vague part of his mind, which somehow retained from his childhood despite the harshest attempts by the state to crush it, felt sorry for the furball. A shame. It didn't change his actions.

Within fifteen minutes the serval had been loaded into the boat, their tracks removed, and there boat launched down the Okavango to meet their handlers. The mission had been carried out commendably. Bortnikov would be most pleased.

Harry Dresden awoke with a hoarse throat. He suspected it was the nightmares of almost dying from the Deathhallow, combined with the fallen angel in his head using its power to seduce him to evil. What else did you need to make a Monday morning complete? Fortunately the walls of his basement were muffled. After all, if his neighbors could miss an all out zombie invasion by Grevane, they certainly wouldn't notice a couple screams here and there.

He growled, pushing himself out of bed and shaking his muscles out. Despite the looming threats which overshadowed his future, it felt wonderful to not be in the middle of a major world crisis. It was such a rare event that he stood revelling in the peace. He waltzed into the living room on this pleasing though. He checked his wards and extended his magical senses beyond his steel door frame as he went, just to ensure he hadn't jinxed himself. Karma seemed to have a personal vendetta against him.

Surprisingly, no one was here to kill him. Mouse barked, nodding his head to the door in a clear signal of wanting to be walked. Harry had to oblige.

With a whistle, foo dog and wizard went for a walk. No Red Court Vampires leapt from a perch. Marcone's thugs didn't accost him. There wasn't even a fairy or white court vampire in sight. It was normal. All too normal. Paranoid? Undoubtedly. That didn't mean a demon wasn't going to leap from the Nevernever and suck your soul leaving you enslaved for the rest of eternity. After seven years of battling evil that paranoia was well deserved.

He grabbed a Chicago Tribune from a nearby paper rack. Mouse would warn him well before the danger became imminent. The front page caught his attention;

 _Liberland Faces Coup D'etat!_

 _Overnight, citizens of the young micronations threw out the former Czech Libertarian Jet Vidlicka with the help of a newfound Marxist movement protesting the imperialism of the West. According to their websites, they plan to use Liberland as a tax free haven to fundraise and vocalize opposition to continued U.S. hegemony. The United Nations plans to meet next month on the issue, with the United States pushing for a peaceful resolution to this Serbian and Croatian crisis._

Just a week ago, it appeared as though the newfound micronation had been stabilized by the government under Vidlicka. What had made everything change so quickly? The Red Court would love a base in Europe from which to expand their base of operations, and the Balkans had low enough of a White Council presence to make it an easy target. What if...

No. He had no evidence to back up the claim. Nonetheless, his instincts were tingling, and they were rarely wrong.

Harry scanned the surroundings hastily before striding, with Mouse in hot pursuit, to the nearest payphone. He punched in the number to the White Council.

It rang for half a minute before a woman responded; "Code and reason for call."

"Hell," Harry Dresden complained in irritation, "You don't actually expect us to remember those, do ya?"

"Well," she responded pertly, "you clearly have no regard for operational security..."

By now, Harry was snorting into the receiver, unable to hold back the bubbling laughter. Operations and security weren't his specialty. Fire and explosions were far superior tools.

"Good day s...!" she started to exclaim.

"Wait," he coughed into the receiver through his chuckles, "this is Harry Dresden."

There was a noise somewhere between a squeak and a gasp. Instead of sounding surprised or scared, it resulted in a noise akin to a faerie injected with helium. It was followed by the dropping of the receiver, and the echoing clop of feet. Harry almost had given up before a familiar voice growled into his ear, "What is it Dresden?"

Good old Morgan! Polite as always, and trigger happy as a ghoul in a daycare.

"Hey buddy, Just checking in!"

"Yeah, sure" Wow, Morgan had finally acquired sarcasm. This was a revolutionary moment in mankind. What next? Curing Cancer? Immortality? Even...dare it be suggested; bending a rule? No, twas too a ridiculous thought to contemplate

It was, however, an accurate assessment. The only reason Harry would ever call the White Council was for information, favors, or as an absolute last resort. Most often those correlated to a similar event. As a newly made warden, he reasoned, why not use the Council's support network every once in a while? There were perks beyond recognized awesomeness and a grey cloak.I was still waiting

"I was just curious about the micronation, Liberland. Anything magical behind it?" Harry asked intently.

"Why would there be?" Morgan replied in his usual brusque manner. "We're short-staffed as it is. We have far more pressing problems than human politics"

"But my instincts tell..."

"Feel free to follow hunches in your own region of command. Europe is not that region. Good day." The buzz of static informed my highly tuned senses that Morgan had hung up. Oh well. Mouse looked at him sympathetically, as though consoling him for his failed attempt. It was probably nothing important anyways.


End file.
